


Killing Me Softly

by foxesandowls



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Gore, Graphic Violence, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxesandowls/pseuds/foxesandowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had been at it for a while, and he’d tried a few different things, but so far, nothing had worked, and Peter was still alive. This is problem for Stiles, because in the grand scheme of things, Peter needed to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Me Softly

Stiles had been at it for a while, and he’d tried a few different things, but so far, nothing had worked, and Peter was still alive. This is problem for Stiles, because in the grand scheme of things, Peter needed to die. Again. For real this time.  
  
At first Stiles had tried poison. It hadn’t been easy, what with Peter still being a were-fucking-wolf who could sniff out most types of poisons Stiles thought of trying, and the ones he couldn’t detect weren’t powerful enough to kill him--at least not with Stiles trying to be at least somewhat stealthy. Wolfsbane was out due to it being poisonous to fucking everybody, not just wolves, and plus Peter could smell it on Stiles when he’d made a last ditch effort near the end of his poison Peter phase. Peter had found a convenient excuse to leave the room quickly, and to not come back.  
  
Stiles had sighed, and given up on the idea that he could poison him. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep trying.

* * *

  
  
Next came knives.  
  
A knife dipped in wolfsbane had actually been the weapon he’d tried to use against Peter at the end of his period of trying to kill him with poison. It hadn’t worked, of course, but it had given Stiles the idea to just forgo the herbal enhancement and just try to _stab_ the fucking bastard until he died from it.  
  
When Stiles had slipped the small, deadly sharp knife gently out of its sheath, hidden under his pillow case, he watched Peter’s naked back move with his breath. Stiles hadn’t really thought it was going to work, but he knew he had to try. It glinted in the light from his window as he brought it down, gently, under the covers to the base of Peter’s spine. Stiles could feel his pulse kick up, his heart starting to pound in his chest and in his ears, and he knew he didn’t have much time. If the movement didn’t wake Peter, then his heart would.  
  
Stiles took a deep breath, and shoved the knife into Peter’s spine with as much force as he could put behind it, the sharp blade slipping into Peter’s back like Peter had slid into Stiles earlier that evening. Stiles felt the warm rush of blood flood over his palm, his wrist, and he heard Peter take in an agonized breath, almost soundless in the still room. He tightened his grip as much as he could with the blood making things slippery, and in the back of his mind he gave a silent wince for his bed sheets and mattress, because there was no way all of it would come out in the wash.  
  
With his fingers tight around the hilt of the blade, Stiles braced himself against the bed to slice his way up Peter’s back, his stomach sinking as Peter jerked once, twice, and then the gash in his back began to fill in with new skin and sinew and blood, repairing him whole again in the time it took Stiles to cut from one end of his back to the other.  
  
With a growl and a jerk of his hand, Stiles ripped the knife out of Peter’s back, rushing to his knees to try and get to Peter’s throat, because if stabbing him literally in the back didn’t kill him, maybe sawing his head off would, but he knew even as he moved that it was doubtful he would get the chance, and he was right.  
  
With a lurch, Peter flipped over onto his other side, grabbing Stiles and pulling him until he was under Peter for the third time that night, although this time with a very different purpose in mind. Peter’s hands slip up Stiles’ arms, stopping at his wrists when they were over Stiles’ head, and gripped them with enough force to _fucking hurt_.  
  
“You can either let go of the knife, Stiles,” Peter said, his expression mild despite the residual blood dripping down from his back to land on Stiles’ chest. “Or I can break your wrist and take it.”  
  
Since a broken wrist meant more time between now and when Stiles finally killed him, Stiles let his bloody grip on the knife slacken, giving it up to Peter with a frustrated sigh. He’d been hoping Peter wouldn’t heal as fast as he had, but it had been a long shot at best, he knew. Still...even after Peter had taken the knife from him and placed it carefully on the bedside table without really letting go of his wrists, it had been nice to feel the blade slide into Peter, perfect to feel the blood rush out like it was greeting him as a favored lover. And Stiles did have a love affair with Peter’s blood--especially when it was being spilled, preferably by him, in a violent manner.  
  
Stiles wasn’t sure if he’d always had these violent tendencies, or if Peter just brought out the _absolute worst_ in him.  
  
“Now, now, I was having a good dream, Stiles,” Peter told him, leaning back into Stiles, his hand covered in his now slightly congealing blood. Peter dragged that bloody hand up Stiles’ side, taking care to smear it in a dizzying line that stood out stark red against his pale body, stopping along the way to tweak Stiles’ nipple, the color blending in with the already bitten-pink skin.  
  
“Yeah? I had a good dream, too, _Pete_ ,” Stiles said, letting his wrists stay resting above his head even when Peter had let them go, now using both hands to play with Stiles’ nipples, one hand white and the other red, a strange dichotomy that made Stiles’ half hard, knowing intimately what the red was.  
  
“And in my good dream,” he said, arching his back subtly as Peter started to drag his thumbs harder and harder against him, the feeling arcing up and down his spine.  
  
“In my good dream, Peter--you? You were dead,” Stiles told him, losing himself for a moment at the sheer _thought_ , that glorious moment, utter beauty and savage _perfection_ , “You were dead, and it was _fantastic_.”  
  
Stiles watched as Peter’s eyes went half-lidded, could feel Peter’s erection hard against his hip, the thick heat of him making Stiles shudder, especially as the blood on his body was cooling off, making points of contrast that had him fully hard, now. He thrust his hips up, looking for friction, and found none when Peter pulled back quickly, a small, amused smirk on his lips.  
  
“Oh, _Stiles_ ,” Peter says, and then his forearms were under Stiles’ thighs, yanking them open and then lining up, and just sliding straight into Stiles. He went from being _without_ to having Peter shoving his thick cock into the lube and come slick heat of him, making Stiles bow his back and cry out.  
  
“You say such lovely things.” Peter sighs, and then proceeds to put his newly healed back into it, setting a rough pace that has Stiles reaching up and bracing himself to both push down to meet Peter’s cock and to keep himself from getting his head bruised since the force is actually trying to move him _up the bed._  
  
“A-aah, _fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, clenching his eyes shut and biting his lip at how fucking _deep_ Peter is, how far inside of him, how full and empty and full he feels as Peter fucks in and out of him.  
  
“If I had known that, _nngh_ , trying to kill you got you this worked up,” he says, “I would have try to much more often than I already _do_.”  
  
Peter laughs with all his teeth, a fierce look of amusement on his face. He curls over Stiles, shoving his face into Stiles’ neck and biting down, at first gently and then when Stiles’ growls and bites back at any bit of Peter he can reach, annoyed at the softness of it, harder until it breaks skin. Such a look of satisfaction shouldn’t be present when someone has blood in their mouths, but for once, Stiles gets that feeling, _understands_ how it can taste so strong and luscious, clean but coating.  
  
It’s how he feels when he’s got Peter’s blood in his mouth, although for him it’s probably more murderous satisfaction than lust, but that only makes the ratios different, it doesn’t change that lust is still something Stiles feels when he’s got Peter’s blood running hot and sweet into his mouth.  
  
The feeling is almost as good as having Peter fuck him, like a part of him is being fulfilled in some perfect manner. If he could get Peter to fuck him while also having his blood in his mouth, salty and hot and rich, he could probably come with no help.  
  
Peter slows his pace, and starts shoving in harder and harder, hitting that spot in him that makes lights go off behind his eyelids and makes his fingers curl with the need to grip down, to shove his nails into something, anything.  
  
Stiles is whining and moaning, his hands going around Peter’s back to grip as he writhes on Peter’s cock, almost enough to get him off, but not _quite_. When Peter leans back and bites at his throat again, the noise Stiles makes is unearthly, and he’s so fucking glad that his dad isn’t home right now, because there would be no way he’d miss this. Peter lets go of his throat to lean back even more, his grinding into Stiles, and reaches down to grip Stiles’ cock with a firm and bloodied hand. The tacky blood isn’t enough to make the drag of his hand smooth, it’s viscosity actually make the pull stop and start as Peter’s hand gets stuck in _his own blood_ , now smeared up and down Stiles’ cock.  
  
Stiles’ breathing stops as his body jerks up, jolting, arcing into an orgasm so _good_ that feels like it should leave him unconscious but that doesn’t, so he can look down and see his come mixing with Peter’s blood, and the sight is gorgeous, almost giving him as much satisfaction he knows he’ll have when he has Peter’s lifeless body at his feet, soon.  
  
The thought makes Stiles sigh with longing and tighten up around Peter, holding him inside and clenching, making Peter’s hips stutter as his face goes dark, back bowing as he thrust again into Stiles, and again, then rumbling out a growl as he adds come to the already filthy wreck of Stiles’ ass. He can feel Peter come in him, the heat and wet making him moan softly at the feeling before he bats at Peter when he falls forward, leaning all of his not inconsiderable amount of muscle and bone into Stiles’ body, making it hard to breath.  
  
Peter chuckles against the bloody and bruised skin of his throat, which now that he thinks about it, is going to be a cast-iron _bitch_ to hide, fuck.  
  
“Nice try,” Peter tells him when he moves his dead ( _oh, if only_ ) ass off of Stiles, the movement pulling his cock out of Stiles, the feeling making both hiss out, Stiles at the stinging in his ass and Peter from the loss.  
  
“Not even poisoned?” Peter asks him after a minute as they both try to get their breath back (Stiles having to work harder at it than the barely winded Peter, the asshole,) “Stiles, you’re going to have to try harder than that to kill me.”  
  
Stiles sighs. “Well, you know what they say,” he tells Peter, staring at the ceiling and sparing half a thought to the mess they’ve made, the mess they’re continuing to make since Stiles’ can feel Peter’s come slipping down his ass to drip off on to the already absolutely _ruined_ bed below.  
  
“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

* * *

  
  
When knives don’t work, when poison fails, Stiles starts to pay attention to _opportunity_. When a group of shit-stupid hunters come into town, lured by the news that there’s a new, inexperienced alpha starting a pack, Stiles perks right up, thinking this might be it.  
  
And he’s almost right.  
  
Peter and Stiles had gotten split up from the main group, following or being chased--he honestly couldn’t remember--by two of the more weathered hunters. Although it didn’t matter how much experience they had, they weren’t going to survive Peter’s claws or Stiles’ baseball bat.  
  
As always, people underestimate Stiles. They see him in his over-sized hoodie, tall but slim, a gangly teenager tumbling over his limbs.  
  
They always learn, though, by the end.  
  
The hunter’s are focusing on Peter, not ignoring him so much as just not labeling him a threat--and Stiles really shouldn’t feel the amount of satisfaction he does when he takes advantage of a particularly distracting move by Peter to sneak around on the hunter, and swing his bat at the man’s knees.  
  
His bat hit the hunter’s knee with a sickening thud, and the way the man screamed made Peter laugh out loud, the sound making Stiles smile, almost happily--it was an infectious laugh, deep and loud.  
  
While the hunter was howling in pain, Stiles raised the bat again and went after the man’s other knee, bringing him down to the ground, his face in the dirt. Stiles saw the other hunter start to come toward him, his face white with rage, raising his gun in his friend’s defense, and it was such a dumb move Stiles almost sighed. Behind his back, Peter grinned wickedly, and _pounced_ , the movement more like a cat’s than a wolf’s.  
  
Stiles watches as Peter puts his clawed hand through the man’s chest, spraying blood everywhere, Jesus, that’s going to be a bitch to clean.  
  
“Hey, hey, asshole,” Stiles calls out to Peter, “At least give some fucks about how we’re going to cover this up, yeah? C’mon.”  
  
Stiles hears whimpers at his feet and looks down to see the hunter struggling to turn over. This time Stiles does sigh. Now he can’t bitch at Peter about the mess, since the one he’s about to make is going to be just as bad, if not worse.  
  
“I’d give you spiel about how you shouldn’t fuck with our pack, and especially not the humans in the pack, but since you’re not going to survive this, what’s the point?” Stiles tells him, and then lifts his bat, and the first hit brings up a fine mist of blood, some of it landing on Stiles.  
  
Killing people was so _messy._  
  
Wait, that made him sound like a serial killer. Which he wasn’t! He just, you know, took care of people who threatened people he loved. Or hurt them. Or could potentially hurt them. That sounded better.  
  
Stiles was panting by the time the body at his feet had stopped breathing. His front was a mess, and he hands and face had a fine dusting of blood on them, making him wrinkle his nose at the tacky feeling. And his bat was just _disgusting_. Stiles leaned down and used a clean bit of the now dead hunter’s shirt to try and wipe what he could off his bat, but looking at it, he knew it wasn’t going to be enough.  
  
Stiles became aware of the silence as he cleaned his bat off and glanced up to see Peter staring at him, and it make Stiles’ breath catch in his throat at what Peter looked like--the blood shiny and wet in the low light, a look of feral satisfaction on his face. Stiles knew Peter would look better covered in his own blood, not someone elses, but regardless the image flipped some kind of switch in Stiles’ brain.  
  
He could hear the others still fighting off in the distance, and he knew they were taking longer because they were trying to avoid actually killing the hunters, which just seemed like bad planning to Stiles, but he wasn’t willing to argue with Derek about it. No, he’d rather just take of the problem himself and spare everyone else the trouble. Which, speaking of...  
  
While Peter watched avidly, Stiles pulled out the guy’s wallet before matter of factly flipping the body of the hunter over, looking for any other identification--and any weapons the man had on him. Pocketing what he found, which wasn’t much, Stiles picked up the gun the hunter had and checked to see if it was loaded--it was. He could see Peter out of the corner of his eye, tensing and wolfing out, just a bit.  
  
He could probably smell Stiles intent, but that was okay. Stiles would just have to graze Peter, and that would be it--it was a hunters gun, a hunter who had been fighting werewolves, there was bound to be some additional shit to the bullets in the gun.  
  
Stiles straightened up, the gun held securely in his hand.  
  
“We should get these bodies together,” he told Peter, gesturing. “Make it easier on ourselves when we gotta roll ‘em up.” Standard operating procedures for when they absolutely had to kill someone was for them to bring the bodies to Deaton, who then somehow (the man was fucking spooky and clearly had some unsavory connections, but since they were asking him to get rid of dead bodies Stiles guessed they really weren’t in a position to point creepy fingers at anyone) had them cremated. Identification went into their own bonfire. Putting the bodies together made them easier to roll up in burlap (which they also burned) for transportation.  
  
“Good idea.” Peter said, and then neither of them moved.  
  
When a particularly loud noise reached them from the bigger fight not far off, Stiles turned his head away from Peter, ostensibly to look for signs of the fight, and let Peter rush him. Stiles’ back hit the hard bark of a tree and the shove rattled his breath, but Stiles went with it, bring the gun up and shooting Peter in the gut.  
  
Peter made a small noise and lurched closer, his blood starting to drip down onto Stiles’ shoes, making Stiles roll his eyes and huff--more shit he’d have to clean up before he went home.  
  
Stiles waited for Peter to sink down to the ground, but when Peter just rested against him, he had a sinking feeling in his own gut. When after a minute Peter pulled back, Stiles let out another aggravated sigh at the sight of the non-poisoned bullet on the ground and at the way the skin around the wound was already healing.  
  
“ _Damn_ ,” he said. “And here I was hoping. Guess I shouldn’t overestimate how smart hunters are. Bringing regular bullets to a werewolf fight?” Stiles made a noise of disgust. “Amateurs. I almost wish I hadn’t killed him now--I wanna yell at him for being _incredibly_ stupid.”  
  
Peter crowds him further into the tree, and even through his pants he can feel Peter’s erection against his hip. Stiles rolls his eyes.  
“Really, dude? You wanna fuck _now_?” Stiles asks him. Peter hums against his throat.  
  
“You’re so attractive covered in blood and trying to kill me, Stiles,” Peter tells him, hands unbuttoning his pants, and then Stiles’. “I just can’t help wanting to fuck you when you’re so bloodthirsty.”  
  
“Whatever, man.” Stiles says, and then, “Lube’s in my pocket,” as Peter pulls Stiles’ pants down and palms his ass.  
  
Peter makes an amused noise in the back of his throat, and Stiles leans down and bites him through his shirt.  
  
“Hey, online sources tell me blood isn’t a good lubricant! And I’d like to walk straight tomorrow, you asshole, so be quick and thorough with the lube.” Stiles says, and then shuts up when Peter proceeds to do _exactly that_.  
  
He spares a mournful thought to this days assassination attempt (because that sounded cooler than ‘today was the day I tried and failed to kill the mothefucker, damnit’) but such was life.  
  
There was always tomorrow.

* * *

  
  
Now matter how hard Stiles tries, he couldn’t kill Peter. Again. _He couldn’t kill Peter again._ You’d think after doing it once, it would be easy, but no. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep trying. He’d try and try, until it _caught_ , until Peter was dead again, and he’d make sure he _stayed_ that way, this time. Soon Peter would be dead and Stiles would have the satisfactions of knowing that _he_ killed Peter, that _he_ did what no one else could or was willing to do.  
  
Derek would be so much better off without Peter, without his tricks and baiting and the constant reminder that this murderer ( _Laura’s killer_ ) was walking around free to do what he liked. But while Derek would be the best suited to kill Peter, being the Alpha and all, Stiles knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill his last remaining family member _again_ , Laura’s murderer or not. He’d already killed off the rest of his family--he couldn’t do it again.  
  
Lydia also had claim to Peter’s life, since he had royally fucked up her life, driving her nearly to the point of insanity and then proceeded to use her to bring him back to life. But she’d have just as hard a time of killing Peter as Stiles was having, even with all of her genius. It was just damn hard to kill a werewolf, and Stiles cared about Lydia, misplaced crush aside, as a person, as a friend, and he couldn’t let Lydia have that on her conscious. Not that he thought it would weigh heavily there--out of all of their little pack, Lydia was probably the closest in being okay with murder like Stiles was. But she’d been through enough--let some else take the trash out.  
  
Scott had some claim as well, but-- _Scott_. He might dislike Peter for messing up his life with all the werewolf bullshit, might even hate him, but there was no way he could kill Peter. It wasn’t in Scott’s personality, in his ability, and since Stiles was already there, already willing, he might as well spare his friend this and keep Scott his goofy, happy self.  
  
No, out of all of them, Stiles was the best person for the job. He had a great amount of murderous intent toward Peter for fucking up so many people’s lives, and Stiles sure wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to get the job down, whether he got it dirty with blood or come, it didn’t matter. Whatever it took to give him the greatest opportunity.  
  
Soon Peter would be dead at his feet, his blood warming Stiles’ hands, and Stiles would feel _triumph_ , and _satisfaction_ , and _pride_ , at a job well done.  
  
Until then, Stiles will just have to content himself with that image and watch with no small amount of anticipation as Peter becomes more and more aware of the fact that Stiles is the predator, now.  
  
And Peter?  
  
 _Prey_.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in years and it's this lovely piece of work :/. This is not beta'd, so if there are issues, please let me know. As a note, the alternative titles to this fic are "While the Body Is Still Warm," and "Dick Wolf." Fic brought to you by some really terrible music, and the letters T and R--I eventually ran out of tequila and had to switch to rum.
> 
> ETA: OH MY GOD AO3, I said Graphic Violence, not non graphic violence! JESUS CHRIST. Tag fixed! O.O


End file.
